


Never Had a Good Day

by Cryptographic_Delurk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age II Quest - Alone, Dragon Age II Quest - Bait and Switch, Gen, Mid-Canon, pure misery distilled into fic form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptographic_Delurk/pseuds/Cryptographic_Delurk
Summary: Seven years was a long time to be together in Kirkwall.Three times Fenris and Anders should have been able to connect. (But didn’t.)
Relationships: Anders & Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Act One: Numb

He doesn’t realise it the first time it happens. There’s just too much going on to piece together the details of every moment, every action, every sensation.

Fenris is shouting that he’s not afraid – not of Danarius, not of his demons. Because even if it winds him and he badly needs the air in his lungs, he needs more to feel brave. A dozen shades are descending upon him in the foyer, and he stumbles like a fool straight into a flame trap, and then a poison one, and the extra help he’s hired for the evening turn out to be mages. There are spells flying everywhere, at the shades and at him. The burns on his skin fade and heal, and for a moment its like he’s floating on air. But then he’s straining his muscles to swing his blade, and the shades are clawing at his arms, and the lyrium is throbbing beneath his skin, and he can be forgiven for thinking he’s imagined it. This whole night might as well be some terrible dream.

He curses himself when the fighting has died down. Why hadn’t he told Anso to be cautious in who he hired? But he hadn’t thought of the need to. Weren’t mages this far south taken and locked up in their Circle towers? Shouldn’t they be more cautious and skittish than to flaunt their cursed gifts in front of any old stranger? But this isn’t the most legal of jobs, perhaps he should have expected it to attract unsavoury elements in the vein of apostate mages.

Fenris calls for Danarius again, tells him his demon pets won’t save him. But the door to the master bedroom is barred, and for each second they waste the likelier it is that Danarius has escaped, and the tone in the room has shifted irrevocably. Outside this manor Fenris had said, so long as they’re here in Kirkwall, that Danarius is a man like any other, one who sweats and cowers when death comes for him. But this place is feeling more like Tevinter by the second – an estate party wrecked by the rampaging of demons, Danarius looming larger than life itself, and these unknown elements closing in around him because there is no place in Thedas safe from magic.

He tries to remember what the leader mage, Hawke, said to him earlier: _If they were really slavers trying to recapture you, then I’m happy I helped._ But it means less to Fenris than he would like it to. Mages are vipers, he thinks, and he wonders if they’ll turn on him in the eleventh hour and let Danarius steal him back. Certainly Danarius could offer them more coin than Fenris, to say nothing of the natural affinity to side with one’s own kind, humans and mages both.

This, too, means less to Fenris than he would like. He is done running, no matter the outcome of standing his ground, no matter that he cannot defeat Danarius for either the impending betrayal of his comrades or his own lack of strength. Danarius had always been stronger and more clever than Fenris, more a god than a man. It now seems laughable that Fenris ever thought to kill him. The most he can hope for is a lucky shot – the chance to plunge his fist through Danarius’s chest in a show of irreverence and indignity, before Danarius reveals his immortality. Or maybe Fenris will die in the struggle, which is a wholly new thought. And Fenris knows it is a sin against the Maker, but its also a sin against Danarius – that Fenris might possess his own life to throw away.

He’s being reckless in exactly the way he said he wouldn’t be. He’s diving through the manor trying to find the damned master bedroom key. Drawing the attention of every Shade in the place.

“You’re making a mess of yourself,” the mage, the one who is not Hawke, says. And suddenly the man is far too close, too tall over Fenris’s head. Fenris attempts to swat him away, but it’s paltry and panicked, and the mage is calm and firm, and presses a hand to the cut on Fenris’s cheek with a kind of brusque impatience. And before Fenris can sputter out his protest, the mage’s hand lights with magic and Fenris _melts_ into it.

Fenris knows well enough to know that his lyrium markings have left him with chronic pain. He’s a keen listener, and he’s heard from more than one person covered in scar tissue or missing a limb about the way their nerves crackle and fire at nothing. And, well, Fenris has good days and bad days. There are good days, where he doesn’t feel his markings at all. And there are bad days, when they weigh heavily into his flesh and throb every few seconds.

But as the healing spell covers him, it removes a weight that Fenris never realised was there. He’s been magically healed before, but the spell is different – so soft and blue and unlike that of Danarius’s Creation spells. And Fenris doesn’t know what to make of the lightness and freedom and downright euphoria, until the spell recedes and every nerve in his body fires and his stomach lurches and his markings throb in retaliation. The contrast, which is familiar but has never before been so drastic, reveals to Fenris a sickening thought. He has never truly had a good day. If that is what it is to be without pain, he has never truly felt it before. At least not in the six years that he can remember.

“A simple ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be misplaced,” the mage says snippily, when Fenris stomps away without a word. But there is nothing to say, and Fenris doesn’t know what will happen if he loses momentum now.

If anything he is even more reckless now, throwing himself at enemies and letting them rip him apart. And Fenris gets the distinct impression that the healer mage is beginning to get frustrated with him. He needs healing practically every minute, and the mage is grousing about how he’s going to run out of mana. Fenris hates every second of it but isn’t even sure he’s doing this accidentally. There’s an addictive quality. Every time he’s healed it feels like he’s being lifted higher and higher, into something blissful and angelic where his skin finally fits. But then it’s over and he’s falling – like the wind is knocked out of him and he smashes into the ground and every bone in his body rattles against the floor. And what he used to enjoy, not the lack of pain but the unfeeling numbness to it, suddenly isn’t enough because every nerve in his body is screaming- It! Hurts! It hurts! It _burns_!

Danarius is gone by the time they break through the bedroom door, has perhaps been gone for quite some time. And the adrenaline is gone once the last of the demons are slain, leaving him lower than ever. He makes some excuse to the rest of his party, offers them free reign of the mansion and its loot, and flees for the entrance.

There are far too many things to come to terms with, and far too little time before the others catch up to him. But the immediacy of danger is gone. There is time to regroup. Fenris only needs to stay calm and think rationally.

These people have helped him when they hadn’t needed to. They held themselves to their word. Even as mages, they did not seem sympathetic with the plight of Tevinter slavers. And Fenris has far too many enemies and far too few friends. It would behoove him to be gracious, and foolish for him to squander the good will of those who had already proven themselves formidable allies.

Even in Tevinter not all mages were the same (although not different enough). Fenris leans against the pillar at the mansion’s entrance and resolves he will do his best to judge these mages on their own merits. He will see for himself what kind of men they are.

He’s surprised to find someone he thinks he can respect in Hawke.

He can’t say nearly as much for Anders.


	2. Act Two: Invisible

“Because Merrill wants to go swimming, and you all need to unwind from-” Hawke waved a hand at them indescriptively, “-being yourselves,” he decided.

It seemed the five of them would not be going anywhere for a while, no matter what Fenris had to say about it. But it was hard to be too put off by this turn of events. It had been a productive morning, taking down that gang of slavers. And even if this little victory celebration was put together in service of pleasing the witch, they could do worse than the clear sky and the waves lapping up against the white sand of the Wounded Coast.

Fenris bore Isabela’s prodding and teasing, the pain in his marks, and the self consciousness of removing his shirt and breastplate. But once he was finished he let himself linger behind and sit at the edge of the sand dune next to a sprouting patch of ammophila. Isabela, Hawke, and Merrill were stripped down to their underclothes in the water, taking turns ganging up on each other as they splashed the odd one out into hopeless coughs and fits of laughter. It was so peaceful and lovely simply to watch them.

It was hard to take offence even when Anders reappeared from wherever he’d gone to strip down, away from Isabela’s catcalls, and took a seat next to Fenris. Over the course of the day Anders had refrained from prodding questions and mockery, and one good turn deserved another. Fenris nodded, in a way he perceived to be acknowledging and friendly.

“Not going in the water?” Anders asked.

“Maybe later,” Fenris said non-committally. “You?”

“Not for me,” Anders said.

Anders had removed his coat and boots, rolled up his trousers, and had unbuttoned his shirt so it flapped in the wind. It did not seem like swimming gear. And Fenris could not fault him for simply sitting here and admiring the view that was Hawke and Isabela and Merrill all being far too handsome.

But when Fenris turned to look at Anders, his eyes caught not on the golden mat of chest hair, but where the wind had lifted the shirt of Anders’s back and revealed a coarse smattering of lined scars.

Anders looked away nervously, and pulled the shirt tighter around him.

“Don’t want them to see?” Fenris asked. He looked away discreetly.

Anders hesitated. “Well, you know. Isabela’s seen it all already. But you know how Hawke and Merrill are… They’d make a big to-do about it. They wouldn’t understand.”

Fenris nodded.

Fenris remembered how he’d bared himself to Merrill, snarled that her tattoos and his brands were nothing alike and explained the excruciating process with which they were inflicted upon him. He’d regretted it afterwards. The catharsis he’d felt at her dumbstruck horror had faded quickly, leaving only her piteous stares. Things he had no use for.

“I have no scars,” Fenris said. “At least not apart from the obvious.” And when Anders turned his head curiously, Fenris extrapolated. “I was a bodyguard, prided on my physical condition. Danarius wasn’t about to weaken such an asset with starvation or beatings.”

One time, Fenris remembered, another slave, a scullery maid perhaps, had been whipped in his place. He remembered watching her writhe under the force of the lash and feeling only the barest tinge of confusion. Whatever lesson it was meant to have impressed on him had fallen flat, and he could not remember now what he had done wrong to warrant the second-hand beating in the first place. But with this amount of distance from the event, he considered that Danarius’s wraths and favours had been doled out capriciously and senselessly by design.

He did not wish to share this with Anders. The mage would only see it as cause to criticise, and would not understand. And if he would understand, Fenris did not want to know.

Anders did not seem to share his hesitation. “Well…” He seemed to consider before letting out his next set of words. “The truth is I really _shouldn’t_ have these scars.”

Fenris huffed. “Of course you should not,” he said certainly. “There are rules, and the templars are meant to look after you, not beat you. It is a result of misconduct.”

“No not that,” Anders snipped. “I’ve seen plenty enough mages out of the Gallows with them but-” The frustration moved quickly out of his voice, and was replaced by… was it embarrassment? “I might be one of only a few people out of the Ferelden Circle who have them.”

“I’m sure it’s a riveting story,” Fenris drawled. But he turned to Anders, and let the edge of his lip curl. He wasn’t sure if it was a challenge or invitation, but Anders seemed to accept it as encouragement all the same.

“Yes, well, I was meant to be healed,” Anders rushed out. “You know, plenty of healers in a tower full of mages. I’m a healer.” He rolled his eyes and made a circular motion with his hand that seemed to indicate he should move past the obvious and get on with it. “They always made sure we got healing afterwards. Just, well, it was a long time since my fourth escape attempt, and I was going a little bit crazy. Surana caused some kind of distraction, I think just to get me out of the dungeons, but all I could think was I had to go somewhere before they made me heal myself, or got someone else to do it. Only I didn’t have a way out, so I ended up making a dash for the spider infested storerooms. I ended up staying in there for over a week, dodging spiders and bunking down in abandoned old webs. Somehow the templars thought I’d bungled my phylactery and managed to escape again, or else none of them were much looking forward to fighting through the giant spiders. I heard they even managed to confuse themselves into sending out a search party. It was all very funny,” Anders laughed. “Except for the not-healing part. Everything got infected and I caught fever, and when I finally dragged myself out of there my back was all full of ugly ridged welts. The folly of youth, you know,” Anders continued to laugh, and it seemed oddly self deprecating. “I just- I’d been whipped half a dozen times at that point. And I never talked about it with anyone, and there was no sign of it, and Irving and the others kept smiling at me like it had never happened, and I- I needed some kind of reminder that it was real. That I wasn’t just going mad and imagining the whole thing.”

Fenris was not sure how it had happened but, somewhere over the course of Anders’s monologue, Fenris had pulled his knees up into his chest. His jaw was hanging slack, and his skin hurt where his fingernails were digging into his brands.

“So, you know, I really shouldn’t have them,” Anders continued with a light-hearted smile. He dug his toes into the sand and wiggled them, like nothing in the world was bothering him. “And now they’re just there, reminding me of things I’d rather not remember. But it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it now.”

“That’s-” Fenris’s voice was aghast, and he hardened it quickly into something scornful. “Disgusting,” he spat.

Anders seemed confused, but Fenris cut him off before he could speak.

“So you need to cripple yourself to prove the abuses you claim were real, like some charlatan?!” Fenris demanded. “Do you feel better knowing you can point to your back and cry about how poor and persecuted you were? Even though you would not even have those scars if you hadn’t inflicted them upon yourself?”

And there were so many flaws and fallacies to what Fenris was saying, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the rage, the look of hurt transforming into something far more defensive on Anders’s face, and the imperative that Anders not follow when Fenris rushed to his feet.

“Find someone else to pity you, mage. I see you for what you are.” And he left Anders sputtering in the sand.

He tried to press it out of his mind as quickly as he could. Fenris had not been beaten or starved. He’d been a personal bodyguard, Master Danarius’s chosen favourite. Even his lyrium brands, bright beacons that marked him out from everyone else, were mistaken for vallaslin and tattoos, or a gift of unnatural power and strength.

Fenris tried to forget how very invisible his pain had felt before he’d come to Kirkwall. How he’d struggled even with himself to see it beyond the honour of his position and his loneliness having forsaken it. How at times he’d wished for some mark more tangible and real to help remind him why he’d run.

Fenris trudged into the water. Isabela splashed him with water, and made a joke about the colour of his underthings. Fenris let himself laugh, and pressed a wave of water back at her. The salt was stinging against his lyrium brands, and the pain helped remind him. And helped him forget.


	3. Act Three: Alone

“I came to apologise,” Anders said.

Fenris turned to the man behind him. Anders stood at the other end of the dock, apparently having followed from Lowtown. Fenris turned back towards the Gallows and kicked his feet where they hung over the side of the dock so they skimmed the filthy water.

“For what?” Fenris shrugged. “Danarius is dead, partly due to your action.” Although it did no good to play dumb. “And what you said – you weren’t wrong. We’re not friends.”

Anders sighed. “No,” he agreed. “But Hawke insisted.” He stepped closer, and stopped a couple metres away. Fenris didn’t look back, only appreciated that he no longer needed to shout.

“Also I guess you could say I’m making sure I don’t leave any business unfinished,” Anders added. “Getting my ducks in a row.”

“Because that’s not ominous at all,” Fenris scoffed, though he had no energy to make it sound truly disparaging.

“I am sorry,” Anders braved on. “Maybe not for what I said. But I’m sorry things didn’t work out with your sister.”

Fenris was sorry for that too. “It is done.”

Their silence stretched out into something long and awkward. The bustle of deckhands and crowing of gulls was all that saved it.

“I had a sister once,” Anders finally said. “Several of them, actually.”

Fenris shrugged. “What happened to them?”

“I don’t know.”

Fenris let the silence stretch again. He didn’t know about Leto, but Fenris had never had anyone. Danarius had had him, once. And then Fenris had killed him.

Fenris cleared his throat. “That mage friend of yours – the one that was made Tranquil – Hawke said he was… _special_ to you.”

“Yes, it seems Hawke can’t keep his blighted mouth shut about anything,” Anders said. But he said it fondly.

“Indeed,” Fenris agreed. And Varric didn’t help. It often felt like his business was all over Kirkwall.

“It’s not really what you think,” Anders explained. “Karl was… my first love? My first lover? It was a relationship, but not quite like anything I’ve had outside of the Circle. We weren’t, I don’t know, dating? Committed? So much as dreaming of what a date or a commitment might be like.” Anders hesitated. “I’m not sure if… I don’t think what we had would have survived outside the Tower, not really. Even when I was trying so desperately to free him, it wasn’t really for the sake of the Karl that sat inside and argued amongst the fraternities. It was for the sake of a freer person I hadn’t met yet.”

“You have had friendships,” Fenris insisted. “You have had a family.”

 _You did too,_ Anders did not say.

“Yes,” Anders agreed. “And except for Justice, none that have lasted longer than my latest escape attempt.”

Perhaps it was true they were always on the run, never settled and never satisfied, but-

“You are a man freer and more capable than that,” Fenris said, and it worried him how close that approximated a compliment. “This is why you are an abomination, worse a fool. You need not make pacts with demons to save yourself from being alone. The others would stay beside you, if only you believed they would.”

Anders shrugged, and it was such an easy thing. Conviction and doubt both rolled off the black feathers of his coat like water.

“I suppose we’ll see before too long,” Anders said. He retreated away from the docks, and into the underground. And when Fenris turned back to look at the skyline as the Chantry bells tolled, he was no longer there.


End file.
